


Cosa Succede nel Monastero

by MayGlenn



Series: Maeg's Kinktober 2020 [6]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades, First Kiss, First Meetings, Getting Over It Because Your Opponent's Hot, Graphic Violence, M/M, Medieval, Period-Typical Racism, Religious Conflict, Xenophobia, battlefield romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27095926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: “We meet again,” Nicolo said, finding that handsome soldier on the battlefield again the next day, as he had every day for the past month-long siege. They would kill each other again today. As they had every day for the past month-long siege.Today was going to be embarrassing, because, well, the saracen was fucking with him, obviously, focused on destroying his armor and his clothes this time.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Maeg's Kinktober 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956238
Comments: 22
Kudos: 119





	Cosa Succede nel Monastero

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober Day 9 - Blood/Gore
> 
> This fic is at best sloppily researched both in terms of TOG canon and medieval history. The religious and cultural sloppiness is, however, intentional, as these two don't understand each other that well yet.

“We meet again,” Nicolo said, finding that handsome soldier on the battlefield again the next day, as he had every day for the past month-long siege. They would kill each other again today. As they had every day for the past month-long siege. 

The strange immortal saracen might have made Nicolo question his own faith—since Mahommed refused to let his soldier die—if not for the fact that God spared him, too, over and over. Well,  _ spared _ : it wasn’t at as though he didn’t feel the pain or the panic of death when it came. He just...woke up after. Got up and walked, cleaned the blood from his clothes, as easily as if Christ had bidden him do so. 

Today was going to be embarrassing, because, well, the saracen was fucking with him, obviously, focused on destroying his armor and his clothes this time. Fearing not for his own life, the man with a bright smile attacked him with abandon, throwing his weight behind the curved sword he wielded in such a way as to hack Nicolo’s armor into its individual pieces, slash his clothes  _ off  _ his body. 

His body healed from a gash across his stomach, but now his tunic bared his midriff. His shoulders healed, his arms grew back. His sleeves did not. 

And now there were enemy soldiers all around him, so no, he wasn’t going to keep track of each pauldron, each vambrace, each link in his chain shirt—yeah, that was a just, a total fucking loss at this point. He was nearly naked by the time the sun sank low in the sky. 

The bloody saracen, of course, opened himself up to Nicolo’s counter-attacks, wide open, and he died several times, more often than Nicolo did, but a sword through the heart or his guts or a cut to the arm or leg or neck left mere holes in his armor and clothes, utterly fixable, and by the time Nicolo caught on to the game, and caught on that there  _ was  _ a game, he was barely fighting in trousers and one boot. He needed a moment to lace up his leggings, and held up a hand for a pause to the fight. 

The wicked, handsome, devilish pagan merely smiled, and leaned against a rock. 

The shadows were long, and the battle had passed over them in some direction. Clearly, one side or another had won. Neither warrior here seemed to care. 

Nicolo tried broken Latin to communicate, but the saracen only shrugged and shook his head, and offered him a date. Nicolo took it, wondering if poison could still kill him, but in good faith he tried offering the saracen the watered-down wine in his pouch—when he found it, for of course it lay among the tattered remains of his clothes—but the warrior politely refused. Oh, right. 

Then the saracen said something with an accent that was so thick it took Nicolo several moments to realize he was speaking  _ Italian _ . More of a Napolese dialect than he was used to, but Nicolo understood him. He was asking for his name. 

Nicolo gave it to him, against his better judgment, and learned that the saracen called himself Yusuf. They were obviously caught up in something together. Perhaps the Lord and the Prophet were using them to settle this entire dispute, a “dispute” that Nicolo had many reservations about, anyway. Nicolo was practical: Holy Land or no, there was  _ money  _ in controlling the trade routes that came through here, and that muddied the religious issues for him. 

“You know, you look better without that red cross on your chest.” 

“Fuck you,” Nicolo replied, but he laughed. He stood up with a groan. 

“Do you want to go again?” he asked, holding his sword loosely. His shield was just gone. He wasn’t quite sure why he added, “I still have a  _ few  _ pieces of clothing you might remove.” 

Yusuf’s smile was bright, but cautious, unsure whether Nicolo was flirting or being a bastard. 

Honestly, Nicolo wasn’t sure which it was, so he shrugged and leaned into it. “Obviously you enjoy looking at me. It might be a sin, for you, you know. My body is practically art.” 

“Oof,” Yusuf said, slicing his sword along a boulder until it sparked. But if he got the joke at his expense, he didn’t seem to be offended by it, replying in kind: “Well, if you’re so interested in having me look at you, that answers what you Templars get up to in those monasteries with no women around.” 

Nicolo betrayed himself by laughing, mostly with his eyes. Yusuf was grinning, delighted by this whole exchange, and more delighted still by catching Nicolo’s delight. 

Nicolo had to shut him up, so he slashed at one shoulder, feinting and going in for a sharp cut on the other shoulder instead. It worked, as the tunic came partially away, baring a dark shoulder even darker with blood. Yusuf was well-defined, gorgeous muscles and joints knitting themselves back together—Nicolo could see inside him and could confirm he was handsome within and without—and for the first time Nicolo thought this might be a mistake. 

He didn’t have much time to think on his mistakes, as his opponent came at him spinning, moving fast, obviously toying with him, being fancy this time rather than effective. Nicolo grew frustrated, killing him several times, once through the neck with his dagger, standing close enough that Yusuf coughed some blood on him, into his mouth. 

They separated, and Nicolo licked his lips. He had a strange desire to lick Yusuf’s. 

The sun set and they were still fighting, exhausted, now, leaning against each other in a kind of modified grapple, just stabbing each other over and over again. It was rather pathetic. 

Finally, with another wicked grin and a deft flick or his wrist, Yusuf cut what Nicolo had remaining as a belt—tenderly, not even actually cutting his skin at all—and what was left of his leggings fell in tatters to the sand. 

They stared at each other for a moment, breathing heavily. Yusuf looked ready to laugh, and Nicolo knew he couldn’t allow that to happen, if he heard that laugh one more time he was going to—

So he reached up, grabbed the saracen by the back of the neck, and crashed their mouths together. He’d show him exactly what they got up to in those monasteries. 


End file.
